July 18, 2013
The Boy on the Hill 0
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old ewe and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
The Boy From the Hill
Water everywhere; dripping, running, cascading off the broken spout from the gutter, soaking the sour grass in the boggy patch by the backdoor, and flowing into new runnels from the burn across the field. Stuart scowled; he was supposed to go up on the hill to chase down the stray ewes and their lambs, an unpleasant wet and boggy task that would probably yield one scraggy old sheep and a dead lamb or two. The smarter and younger ewes had already trotted off down the road to the ferry with their lambs and were happily eating seaweed on the beach and sheltering under the run-in shed there.
They had the best idea thought Stuart. What would happen if he just trotted off? Down the road, across the ferry, hitch a ride into town – then what? How far could an eleven year go without being caught and sent back? Then they would probably send him away to school; that he didn’t want. He liked his little school in the village, of course it was a pity there was no one of his age there, and the teacher was a tart old lady, but Stuart liked the ancient stone building, with its worn flagged hallways and odd brick walled recesses. He liked the dinner lady, Annie, who clattered about in the new kitchen, wrestling with the Aga cooker to produce delicious steamy dinners. The kitchen annex was built onto an old cottage ruin and Annie was convinced ghosts of the fishermen who had lived there for centuries tampered with her cooker and blew drafts down the chimneys just when the batter puddings were rising. “There’s a grievance that’s never been righted,” she would say, “and there’s not a pudding will rise when they’re in the mood for vengeance.”
Stuart searched out his boots from under the dog bed and dragged his tatty tartan scarf round his shoulders; there’d be a grievance right enough, and vengeance, if he didn’t get those sheep in before Dad came back from stalking the fox that was taking their lambs. He whistled to his dog, Ben, took up his stick, and set off across the stream. The current rushed past his knees trying to grab him and drown him but Stuart was up to its tricks and clambered across his special rocks with Ben behind him. The heavy clouds lingered, but the worst of the rain had stopped, and a meager light lay over the hills. Stuart trod up the hillside, past a clump of twisted trees and old rocks where it was said the cattle thieves in the old days had met a grisly end. He pushed his way through the scraggly holly trees and clumps of bracken that had grown up round the rocky foundation of cottages now tumbled into their own insides; those who had lived here, gone, moved off, long ago.
The hill broadened out into a series of flattened rough grass areas, dotted with scrubby shrubs, where the sheep liked to hang out. He sent Ben running wide to flush out the strays; the dog streaked away, belly low, Stuart watched him circling the hiding places, but no shabby old yew with her tottering lambs was flushed out. Together they covered several of the roughs, Ben coming back each time with a disappointed look.
“Och,” said Stuart, “they’ll be away around the headland, come on Ben.” They set off along a narrow sheep trodden path at the cliff edge. Stuart looked down at the familiar loch below him. White caps ran in across grey, restless water, mountain tops on the far side were disappearing into the clouds, a misty rain set in. “Something’s coming,” said Stuart and Ben whined and pressed closely to his legs.
Once round the headland they felt the wind. More roughs stretched ahead and Stuart could see the tumbled remains of a settlement on the hillside. The mist was settling around them now. Stuart shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his shoulders, he found his old cap in his pocket and put it on. He looked toward the ruins again. Something white lurched in the rough grass and two small dots jumped about; an old yew and her twins.
“Ben,” but before Stuart could send him off, Ben had gone, racing away as if to another call.
“Ben!” Stuart went after him, whistling him back, but the dog didn’t return. Strange, he was a good dog, well trained, he would never take off like that. Stuart plodded on into the mists; strange again he didn’t quite know where he was, the landscape seemed changed, he should be somewhere near the old fisherman’s hut, a tottering heap of beams and stone, sometimes the sheep would take shelter there, maybe that’s where Ben had gone, but where was it?
The mist settled about him. A dog growled just ahead, and the anxious bleat of a new lamb sounded nearby. Thank goodness, Ben must have found them. The ewe called back to her lamb, she sounded close and Stuart called to his dog, “Ben, Ben where are ye?”
“He’s here wi’ me where he should be, and who are ye to come worrying my sheep?”
A boy, about his own age, stepped forward, he was holding a lamb wrapped in sacking, and Ben sat at his feet, growling.
A cold wind soughed through the trees bringing with it an icy downpour, driving away the mist. Now Stuart could see, behind the boy, the fisherman’s hut, but built up, roofed, a spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. Next to the hut was crude pen and in it ewes, with the faded red markings that he and his dad had daubed earlier in the year.
“Come away in,” said the boy, “ye’ll drown out here.” He pushed aside the sacking over the doorway and went in. Stuart moved forward, and Ben growled again, he dropped to the ground, barring Stuart’s way.
“Whisht, Ben,” they said it together and Ben relaxed, letting Stuart in.
“ What are ye doing with my sheep?” again they said it together,
Stuart looked at the boy, it was like looking in a mirror; he had Stuart’s blue eyes, dark hair and round Scottish face. Like Stuart he wore a cap and a tartan scarf round his shoulders.
“I’m after the strays, the ones in your pen out there they’re ours, my dad sent me after them,”
The boy stared at him.
Stuart tried again, “I’m Stuart, from back in the valley, those are our sheep.”
The boy continued to stare. The lamb bleated and wriggled in his arms and he put it down. It had a little black face and thin wobbly black legs, like all the lambs in the valley.
The boy saw him looking, “Aye he’s an odd one, I’ve never seen the black face before. I’m Euan, from away over the hill, and these are my sheep.”
Stuart looked more closely at Euan; was there something a little strange about him? He was dressed pretty much like any farm boy from these parts,but he spoke a little differently, not quite like a local; and he was stealing sheep.
“Are you a traveler then?” he said. Travelers wandered the area, stealing sheep and deer and leaving junk at their campsites.
“Nay not me, my brother now, he’s the traveler, off to join the king and down wi his enemies and I’m thinking you’ll better be coming back wi me to see the old man and we’ll see whose sheep these are.”
Euan pulled back the gate to the pen and the sheep tumbled out. He handed the lamb to Stuart,
”You can carry this yin, Ben will bring the others down, come on now, we’ll get down hame out of the rain.”
He pointed down the hill to the settlement lower down. A shaft of sunlight lit up two rows of cottages, smoke coming from the chimneys, people moving about, cattle standing in the stream.
“The king?”
“Aye, the Bonnie Prince, and who else will be king in this year of 1745?”
A wet nose bumped his leg as Ben drove him forward along with the sheep.
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